From Darkness I Awake: A Johnlock Fanfic
by SH Ships Sherlock
Summary: This story is a Child!lock that follows John and Sherlock through their relationship. Their friendship, love, hatred, and return to love. What secrets does John hide? What the heck is up with Mycroft? You'll just have to wait and see. Told from multiple perspectives. The main ship is Johnlock. WARNING: M for adult scenes, language, drugs, and thoughts/actions of suicide and murder.
1. Chapter 1: Nightmares and Dissections

Note: I do not own any of the characters in this story. I have changed some of their personalities and ages for my purposes.

Please also note that while I did the majority of the writing, I have had many supporters in the making of this story. Among them are –JW, -Consulting Otter, and –John's Mustache of the Facebook page Ships Ahoy: A page on shipping Sherlock. Another notable person is my very close friend Tim, who has been so excited to read the first draft of very chapter and give helpful suggestions. You will never know how much your enthusiasm has worked itself into this story. And thank you, the reader, for taking the time to read this.

Chapter 1: Nightmares and Dissections

_John_ (& Sherlock)

The soft cadence of rain interjected by the loud exclamation of thunder woke John up at midnight. His bed creaked and groaned as he sat up and looked around. No one else was awake. Except for Sherlock. John slowly, sleepily got himself up and out of bed and tip-toed down the line of beds to the other end of the sleeping room. "Sherlock," John whispered at the mop of dark curls bent over on the floor, "what are you doing?" The mop turned slightly toward John to reveal a glimpse of a pale, angular face.

"Who are you? Never mind, don't answer that question. I already know that you are an orphan, probably six, or are you seven? No, you're definitely six. And you are worried about someone, possibly a brother or a sister. You are new here, judging by the state of your clothes and the fact that you are worried about your sibling. Parents killed in an accident, one so terrible that it still haunts your eyes and makes you feel hollow. How am I doing? Wait…don't answer that, I know that I am doing fabulously. Now, on to your question. What am I doing? Well, many of the insects I am trying to study are nocturnal, so I was trying to dissect a particularly fascinating species of _Drassodes lapidosus_1 before you came up here and distracted me…and now ants are already taking parts of the corpse. Now I shall have to restart."

John couldn't do anything but stare at this most remarkable boy with his mouth agape. "H-how…how did you know all of that? I have never told anyone most of those things, except of the headmistress," he said, completely flabbergasted. "Did Harry tell you?" he demanded furiously.

"Who is Harry? Your brother, I presume. No, he didn't tell me. How did I know? Simple deduction, that's all," Sherlock said shortly as he stood up. Kneeling, Sherlock was about a foot and a half shorter than John was standing, but when he was a little less than a foot taller than John. Or so John felt.

"Ok, I guess that makes sense," John said softly, a little unsure of himself, "But what about me told you that?"

"Well, the major clue for everything is that a thunderstorm, not even a bad thunderstorm at that, woke you up in the middle of the night when it didn't wake up any of the other boys. That sort of clued me in that you were having nightmares, perhaps about your parents dying in some terrible accident, further confirmed by the sadness the sadness that haunts your eyes, the surprise that you couldn't conceal when I said that your parents had died horribly, and even the fact that you are here at Saint Dymphna Orphanage2. Being here also gave me enough evidence that your parents' deaths were horrible, as the authorities thought that you would be traumatized. You being up also tells me that you are worried about something or someone, most likely your brother Harry. I can tell you are six by your bone structure and the way you carry yourself. And I already addressed how I know that you are new here. Now that I have answered all of your questions, it is time for you to answer mine. What is your name and how did you know mine? Also, did I deduce you correctly?"

John just stood in front of Sherlock for a few minutes, still taking in everything he said, as Sherlock had been talking very quickly. After he had taken it all in, he replied in a slow, deliberate manner so that every word was as sparkling as the stars on a clear night in the middle of nowhere, "My name is John Watson. I knew your name, Sherlock Holmes, because before…before the accident, as you put it (Sherlock winced at this, as he realized that most six-year-olds didn't have just as high of a vocabulary as he did3, because he would have said _so eloquently put it_ instead of just _put it_), there were rumors at my school that there was a strange boy, 'pale as milk, whose name was Sherlock Holmes.' They said that 'he was extremely smart, so smart that his parents didn't know what to do with him or his older brother, Mycroft, who was rumored to be even smarter than Sherlock. So they sent both of their sons off to Saint Dymphna Orphanage, because they had the best education in London since they catered to all sorts of mentally challenged children, from the extremely dumb to the extremely smart, no matter if they were orphaned or they were too difficult to deal with at home,'" he said, ending his length of quotes, "And you are the only person here that I can think of to fit the description. My friend Mike told me that your face was as pale as a ghost and as sharp as a rock and your hair was almost like that of a girl, long and curly and dark.4 He also told me you were really tall. He wasn't lying." John thought for a few seconds before continuing. "I don't understand your second question."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look surprised. He had never thought that he was well-known for his intelligence. He mulled over John's words, trying to find a way to rephrase his question now that he knew the full capability of John's comprehension. When he finally compiled his response (it took him a total of 51.3 seconds and was steadily decreasing) he explained with the tone of a mother asking her child where on his body it hurt after falling off a bike, "I meant, are all of the things I said about you; your parents dying a tragic death, your brother, your age, et cetera, et cetera; true?"

John took a moment to review all that Sherlock had, in his words, "deduced" about him. Having fully reviewed himself, he said, "Yes, you got everything about me correct (Sherlock smiled, exuberant because this was his first completely correct deduction. He would have to go tell Mycroft at breakfast, he thought, so that he would stop flaunting at him that his completely-competent deduction skills without Sherlock flaunting his right back.)...except (Sherlock's smile was already starting to fall) for Harry. Harry. Short for Harriet."

By the time that John stopped talking, Sherlock's smile had fallen into a frown. "Always. There is always...something," he growled. Then, moving to sit heavily on his bed, ignoring the creaks and moans, he muttered to himself, "Mycroft will not let me forget this. Ever." John just looked at him strangely. "Oh, go to bed, John. I promise to talk to you in the morning. If you want, you can help me find my next experimental subject."

John thought this over. "Sure, that way when I see Mike I can tell him what I have learned from you," he said with a yawn and plodded heavily back to his bed next to the window. As he was drifting off to sleep, he had the feeling that he was about to embark on the biggest journey of his life.

Notes:

1: _Drassodes lapidosus_, also known as the stone spider, can be found in London, but is fairly uncommon to find and even harder to identify.

2: Saint Dymphna is the patron saint of mental illness (among other things), which is why I choose her name as the name of the orphanage.

3: I realize that Sherlock and John are actually different ages, but for the sake of the story I am making them both six.

4: Can you guess who Mike is? Hint: he always brings them together.

So...what did you think? What would you like to see in the future? Please give me feedback!


	2. Chapter 2: John Enters a New Era

**Please tell me what you think. I am really sad and could really use a pick-me-up. Also, I decided I will just post new chapters whenever. Because I really want people to start to tell me what they think.**

Note: I do not own any of the characters in this story. I have changed some of their personalities and ages for my purposes.

Summary: In which a question mark appears and John almost loses his lunch.

Chapter 2: John Enters a New Era

?

The sky was still grey and cloudy when John woke up. The headmistress was calling all who were able (which wasn't very many of them) down to morning chapel. John rolled out of bed, quickly changed his clothes, and went down to chapel, searching for Sherlock the whole way.

He didn't see Sherlock in chapel, which was strange because chapel was a requirement for all who were physically able. And Sherlock was clearly able. Looking around as he went to sit during breakfast, John spotted Sherlock sitting by himself. Wanting answers, he briskly trotted to sit across from him at the end of one of the long, worn-down, grimy tables that were all that Saint Dymphna could afford. "Why weren't you at chapel this morning?" John asked by way of greeting with his typical (at least as far as Sherlock could tell) childish curiosity.

"Our parents actually pay for us to get an education at this school, we can do whatever we want," Sherlock said absentmindedly while eating his oatmeal. We, John wondered, our? But it is only you and me, Sherlock, and we are most definitely not related. And this was true. They were exact opposites. John was tan, had straight blonde hair, and wasn't very good in school. Sherlock was pale, had curly brown hair, and was already taking secondary and tertiary school courses. Then John glanced next to him and was surprised to see an older boy with straight brown hair and a hawkish nose sitting next to him. When did he get here, John thought to himself in a fit of surprise.

"Who is this, Sherlock?" the surprisingly quiet (considering his large size) boy asked without even glancing at John for a moment, "A new pet, or should I say 'experiment,' of yours?"

"No, Mycroft, this is John. He interrupted me in the middle of an experiment last night, so I asked him to come and help me find a new specimen. John, this is my brother, Mycroft. Don't talk to him, he just likes to brag about how he is better than me at everything, which isn't fair because he is seven years older than me1," Sherlock said by way of introduction and paused before saying in a pleasant but devious tone, "Haven't you eaten enough doughnuts already this morning, brother dear?"

Mycroft just gave him an icy glare before resuming eating. They all ate their breakfast in silence, well, most of them. The kids Sherlock called "The Crazed" were laughing their heads off. Sherlock then suddenly got up and left, saying over his shoulder, "John, I have to go get my books for class. How about we meet back here for lunch then go find that specimen?"

"Sure," John called out, but Sherlock was already gone. He sighed and resumed eating his breakfast. The next time he looked up, he was startled to see Mycroft staring at him intently.

"Interesting," Mycroft mused, mostly to himself, "Very interesting." John just made a little sound in his throat as if to ask for clarification. "You are the first boy Sherlock has talked to with anything other than contempt ever. Why is that?" Mycroft asked this question mostly to himself, but John, being who he was (with the intellect he had), took this as an actual question.

"I…I don't know," he stammered. Mycroft made him nervous. "I just went up to him in the middle of the night and asked him what he was doing and he wouldn't stop talking and…" Mycroft cut him off.

"Yes, yes. I wasn't actually asking you…I was more…asking myself. Anyways, down to business. I want you to watch after Sherlock for me. Don't let him do anything stupid. I have to go get ready for class, too. Nice to meet you, John," Mycroft spoke so quickly that by the time John was able to respond, he was already gone. So John just got up and threw away his trash before running to class so that he wouldn't be late.

Lunch finally came and with it the time to explore with Sherlock. John hurried into the lunchroom, eager to find Sherlock and begin. After searching the room over and over again, he still couldn't spot the dark mop of curls he wished to find. A hand touched his shoulder, and John turned to see Sherlock walking along the corridor with a magnified glass. John just shrugged and followed. It would be missing lunch for one day; he wouldn't be hungry until dinner anyway.

"What're we lookin' for?" John whispered. Sherlock didn't lift his eyes from the magnified glass or respond, just handed him a piece of paper with a detailed depiction of a spider covering the majority of the page. "Wow. Did you draw that, Sherlock?" Sherlock just half-nodded in response.

As they slowly searched down the hallway and the next and the next, they didn't say a single word. For half an hour they searched before giving up for the lunch-period. John saw that Sherlock neatly marked the hallways they checked on a little map he had made. Then they went their separate ways to regroup at dinner. And this continued to happen every day at every meal. They didn't always search the halls for all of the meal period; they stopped for a quick bite from time to time or got something easy to carry. John started to notice that the plumpness he had had since he was a baby was finally starting to melt away with the exercise and sparse diet. They finally, after more than a month of searching, Sherlock found his _Drassodes lapidosus_. "Quick, John, fetch me a jar! Quick! Quick! John you are being as slow as Mycroft after eating only cake for two weeks straight!2" Sherlock shouted, clearly excited after his long exploration to find his version of gold, experiments. "You got the jar?" Sherlock asked when John finally got back. John could only nod. "Good, good. Now we get to dissect it!"

I won't go into the details of Sherlock's dissection. Needless to say, John was close to vomiting many times (five, Sherlock would say); there was spider blood and poison all over the dissection dish, and Sherlock almost poisoned himself three times. I previously said that Sherlock loves experiments (in a roundabout sort of way), and the reason why was because he had an endless desire for knowledge. He always had to know why and how. But enough about that.

In the course of a few months, John and Sherlock were the best of friends and everyone could see it. They always sat together at lunch, did experiments and such during recess, and got to know each other more in general. Sherlock finally learned how John's parents died. He didn't tell me, of course.

Oh, I guess I haven't introduced myself. Well, I am not a main character at this time if either Sherlock's or John's life.3 But I would be soon after this. Very soon. But how do you know how they were feeling and what they asked themselves you ask me? Quite simple, really. They told me.

Notes:

1: When looking into the books of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mycroft and Sherlock's age difference is actually seven years. I wanted to at least keep that part true.

2: I thought that my Cakecroft fans would like this reference.

3: ? is first introduced in the next chapter.

**Once again, please tell me what you thought! It would mean the world to me!**


	3. Chapter 2-point-5

**So… I've decided to do all of these little teasers. This is only the first. There are a lot coming up. I was feeling a little evil. The thing is, they are necessary to fill in the story line. Because some of this stuff comes up later. This one may be short, but I promise, the next chapter is sooo much longer! Anyways, please review! Pretty please, I want to hear from all the readers!**

**Note: I do not own any of the characters in this story. I have changed some of their personalities and ages for my purposes. Basically, I still own nothing.**

Chapter 2.5: Sherlock Gossips and John Questions

_John_

John looked at Sherlock sitting across from him. He must have totally forgotten that today was the one year anniversary of our friendship, John thought to himself. Instead, he goes on and on about his classmates.

"…And then there is this bloke named Anderson. Not exceptionally bright. But he thinks he is. He is dating Sally, that girl I told you about earlier. There's a match made in heaven."

It was all John could do not to roll his eyes, but forced himself to listen. Do not think about Sherlock's new coat he got for Christmas. Or how it is a dark blue, calf-length frock coat. Or how he wears it with the collar up. John, he reprimanded himself, focus on Sherlock. It could be important.

"…Molly Hooper is an exception, I find. She is actually quite smart and can learn quickly, but she is terrible at taking hints from what I've seen. Not currently dating anyone."

John figured that this was Sherlock's way of keeping busy. He tried to be understanding, but he really just wanted to go outside and play.

"…Now, John, you will find this next one particularly fascinating. John. Please listen. I promise you can go and play after this one."

"Fine, Sherlock. Just get a move on."

"Greg Lestrade. In tertiary. Not an idiot, but not exceptionally bright either. In charge of the hall monitors and all other monitors. But here comes the strange part. In a relationship…with Mycroft."

John thought it over. "That isn't that strange, Sherlock. I'm friends with you."

Sherlock smacked his head with his hand. "I forgot sometimes that we don't think on the same level, John. I didn't mean as friends, John. I meant that they are dating."

"Oh." That was all that John could think to say. He walked out of the lunchroom and then went outside, not even sure of what he was doing.

Are Sherlock and I dating, John asked himself. No, of course we aren't. Dating is for older kids. But will we date, John queried. I mean, I like him, I would go with him anywhere, but date him? That's for the future to decide.

**So…what did you think? Did you like all the little hints at ships I made? I promised them, didn't I? Anyway, please review. It could just be a long rant to me about anything or just a single letter. Anything is good with me.**


	4. Ch 3: Jim and Moriarty, Love and War

**At long last, the much-sought-after chapter is here! Since I am posting this part the same day as Chapter 2.5 and this chapter is loooooong, I probably will not post another chapter for a few days. Just to let you stew. Sorry, but I can't type fast enough or have enough time to write as much as uber-amazing fanfic writers, and I am sorry for that. I really and truly adore writing in all these different voices. Thank you to all who have read my story, reviewed, or followed it. Please tell me what you think!**

**Note: I do not own any of the characters in this story. I have changed some of their personalities and ages for my purposes. Basically, I still own nothing. Except for a pair of Sherlock shoes, which I actually got on Etsy... but now I am rambling.**

**Warning: This is where we get into some of the more steamy stuff.**

Chapter 3: Jim and Moriarty, Love and War

Sherlock

I have been "friends" (that is John's word for it, mine is "companions") with John Watson for twenty-nine months, nine days, ten hours, thirty-one minutes, and two seconds as of now. We are outside for recess (they still make me go even though it means I miss part of Chemistry) and I am doing my hydrochloric acid and water experiment on the lawn. This is my earliest memory of when I first saw Him. Not god, but the boy. JM. Moriarty.

He was on the other side of the playground. Just standing there, observing John and I. So I observed him right back. "Now, John, you cannot see the hydrochloric acid anymore, can you?" John shook his head no. "Good. This is because the water molecules break the hydrogen and chlorine apart to create ions and then surround those ions with the opposite charge." John just looked confused. "You'll learn about it in tertiary, John." His face then cleared of confusion and John smiled up at me. But I wasn't looking at my dear John. I was looking at the mystery boy. There was only one person I knew who would know this mystery boy's name. And he was standing right beside me. "Say, John, do you know who that new fellow is?" I ask him, trying to act cool and uninterested and failing miserably.

"His name is Jim. Jim Moran1, or something like that. Why, do you fancy him?" John teased. And he would continue to tease, because he thought that I wasn't attracted to girls. But I was, I just didn't see the logic in pursuing them as John was so oft to do.2 Another reason I didn't pursue girls was because I was only really attracted to one person, one person only. And that person didn't even really know it. John. My heart belonged and still belongs to John H. Watson (I am still trying to uncover the puzzle of his middle name).

But it wasn't like I could tell him that or anything. I mean, we are only ten years old (almost ten and a half, but whatever), not old enough to be thinking about love. So I responded to John's quip with a nice little "Yeah.' Let John stew on that. "Yeah, I do like him. In fact, he has a very appealing face." And he did. His face was almost like mine, sharp with many dips and hollows and crevices. But Jim's face was softer somehow. His hair was a light brown and sort of waved to the side. By looking at his height and bone development, I would estimate him to be eleven years old. And even from a great distance, I could feel his sharp wit and mind, calling to me. So I returned it with my own call. And I walked over to where he was standing…

"Hello. My name is Sherlock. You're new here, and the reason you are here is… (I pause to form a full analysis. 4.53 seconds. Extreme ADHD, extreme OCD, extreme phobia, extreme depression, dementia, MID, schizophrenia, autism, Asperger's, narcolepsy…) …because…ah…you are a sociopath. How fitting. I am, too. A highly-functioning one. Welcome to Saint Dymphna, Jim…" I trail off, fishing for a last name. It's so nice to shed that itchy skin I must wear around John. I can't be this direct or forward with him, it would scare him off. But Jim…there was something different about Jim. I know I had told John that I was attracted to him (sort of), but now I actually was starting to become attracted to him.

"Moriarty. Jim Moriarty. I also detect a hint of Asperger's in there, if I am not mistaken3. And so I get to meet the great Sherlock Holmes. This shall be the most interesting of schools. I am guessing you are already most of your way through secondary school and doing some tertiary classes. Perhaps we shall have some classes together," he responded, quite loudly if I might say. But then he leaned forward and whispered, "See you on the battle field." And he walked away.

There was a sudden sick feeling in my stomach. Because I knew. I knew that since we were both sociopaths, the flutter in my stomach would soon turn to stones. We are both too clever, too smart to not fall into this trap, this contest trap, to see who was better. I slipped my hand into my pocket and felt a slip of paper. Pulling it out, I read:

_Just in case you were wondering, I think that you are cute, too. I know you didn't say you thought I was cute out loud, but I know you were thinking it. Don't tell John that. Actually, don't tell John about anything between us. He unconsciously checks out your butt from time to time, you know. I have to say, it is pretty fine. But this one thing I promise you: I will make your life a living hell._

_-JM_

And he did. For the next few years he found kids to randomly trip me and hit me, he found ways to make my experiments go wrong, he got close to John and became his best friend (I was good on my word, I never told John a peep of what was going on between Jim and I), I randomly got little love letters from him (not the kind you are thinking of, but our kind, our special kind…and I kept every single one of them), and we had our occasional showdown in strange places (the garden, the bathrooms, an empty primary classroom, the kitchen) with an abundance of sexual tension and interludes given and received. My favorite one by far was the one by the ward for those who needed constant care.

"So, you go around having kids beat me and almost blow me up, take my best friend, and send me love letters. It's almost as if we are married," I say snarkly, bruised and swollen from the multiple attacks throughout the week.

"Almost," Moriarty (I think of him as two different people: Jim, the boy who loves me, and Moriarty, the boy who wants to destroy me) says, "I almost blow you up. I love you too much to lose you so soon. And you know John loves you, too. But I am the one who got his first kiss." He looks at me with his sarcastic shocked face. "Whoops. Did not mean to say that. Oh wait, I did.4"

"What. Do. You. Want," I growl through gritted teeth, fed up with his endless childish games.

"But I already told you Sherlock. Don't you remember? I want to make your life a living hell. I want to burn you. To destroy you," Moriarty says, changing from playful to serious in 0.74 seconds.

"You already have," I whisper, and walk away before can reply with some smart remark.

**M**

Hello, quick note from me before Sherlock goes on about how I destroyed his life. Blah, blah, blah. Yeah, I am that mysterious question mark in Chapter 2. Yes, me, Jim Moriarty. Jim? Jim from the story? I just want to point out that I didn't really want to say that stuff about burning Sherlock and destroying Sherlock and all that. I didn't want to hurt Sherlock, I wanted to love him. Even though he was only eleven at the time of that showdown, he was the most gorgeous male I had ever seen. But the only way I knew how to show my love was through destruction. And that, I am sad to say, is what I did to Sherlock Holmes. I destroyed him.

**M**

Jim and I had to act like friends in front of John. Poor John, not seeing the underlying animosity, only the sexual tension between us. Take, for instance, this one time when we were twelve and Jim (note: not Moriarty, but Jim) sat on my lap in the library because there was nowhere else to sit. Or so he said. And he snuggled up close to my face and kept on wriggling his body, which, needless to say, made me very uncomfortable. And he leaned his side against my chest and put his head in the crook of my neck. I could feel his breath puff warmly against my slowly-warming skin. He tilted his head up to look at my face. And then we were staring deep into each other's eyes, unconsciously moving closer. I couldn't read any hate or animosity in his gaze, only desire and warmth. We were so close our lips were only a hair's breadth apart. The sounds and sights of the library were gone. All that mattered was Jim and I locked in a perpetual state of longing. Neither of us blinked or moved a millimeter.

And then it was broken by the librarian, who told us only one person was allowed per seat. Moriarty teased me incessantly about it for years. And poor John sat there the whole time, doing whatever John does. Probably yelling at us to kiss already.

John truly didn't know what was really going on between Moriarty and I until it was too late. And then John's lion-heart was broken by the lies. The lies brought to light by the Fall.

Notes:

1: Yes, Jim Moran was intentional. My main purpose in this fanfic is to give every shipper something to fangirl or fanboy about, but still always bring it back to Johnlock.

2: I have been thinking of doing a fanfic of not John sleeping around, but Sherlock sleeping around. Please tell me how you would feel about it so that I can see if it is worth pursuing.

3: I have heard before of theories about Sherlock having Asperger's and I was interested to figure out if he actually does. Before I go into my finding, I feel it would be fitting to first give a definition to those who are confused. In _Abnormal Psychology: An Integrative Approach_ by David H. Barlow and V. Mark Durand, it is said that "Asperger's disorder involves a significant impairment in the ability to engage in meaningful social interaction, along with restricted and repetitive stereotyped behaviors but without the severe delays in language or other cognitive skills characteristic of people with autism." Using the diagnostic criteria for Asperger's disorder found in DSM-IV-TR, I found that Sherlock has Asperger's based off of Benedict Cumberbatch's portrayal. Now, this does not mean that Sherlock actually was supposed to have Asperger's, but Cumberbatch has allowed for my portrayal of Sherlock with Asperger's. Please also note that in DSM-V (the newest edition of the books used for diagnosis) Asperger's in no longer considered its own thing but a subset of autism.

4: I purposely created this paragraph to be up to the reader. Did Moriarty actually kiss John or not? Even I don't know.

**What did you think? Was ****?**** who you thought it was? Did you like the almost-kiss? And are you mad at me for yet another cliffhanger? Please tell me in a review below!**

**And your next update is coming on either 1/26/14 or 1/27/14. Unless if five people comment on this chapter demanding more.**


	5. Chapter 4: For the Mystrade Shippers

**Ok, sooo… since we had a snow day today (yay!) I was able to type up almost all the other chapters that I have written. Needless to say, I am already working on Chapter 10. Yeah. This little mini-chapter gave me some problems. I didn't know how I wanted to portray Mycroft. Also, trying to portray his feelings about Lestrade…that was a bit difficult. But I hope that all of those Mystrade-shippers out there enjoy it and I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labor!**

Chapter 4: Mycroft, Otherwise Known as the British Government

**Mycroft**

It was my final semester when I started getting the letters.

_I like your boyfriend. He's hot. And older. Meow._

_ Your brother doesn't know what he has gotten himself into._

And most disturbingly…

_Does your brother know how much influence you already have? Only seventeen and deciding the fate of criminals. Oh my._

That was the one that really worried me. Because even Sherlock had yet to find out that the British government had taken notice of me and already had me doing rudimentary government work. Whoever this person was, there were powerful. And smart. But also a little psychotic, it seemed.

I confided in Greg, telling him that I was scared of whoever this person was. "Well, I can have some of my prefects1 keep an eye out for you," Greg murmured to me with his face buried in my neck.

"Thank you, sweetie," I said, lightly panting from all of this unusual touching. Luckily, since we were fourth years in Uni, we had our own room, otherwise we would have been seen as strange. "Mmm, Greg, don't stop, don't ever stop," I groaned. And he didn't.

Yes, I used Greg. I needed an easy way to get valuable information around the school without turning to the government. And the one person who could do that was Greg Lestrade. At first I thought that we could just be friends and I could still get the information, but less than two seconds after meeting him I changed tactics. Because Greg was obviously gay.

That's not to say that I am not gay. I am. But, being part of the British government, I am trained to not bring attention to myself. And openly being gay would. Out in the real world, anyways. But why change while here if I'll just have to change back?

Greg got me the information the next day. "It's a boy," he said, utterly amazed, "A boy named Jim Moriarty." Of course, I went and scoped him out. And when I did, I instantly saw the simultaneous attraction and hatred between him and Sherlock. And I could also see where things would quickly go. But there was nothing I could do, just watch and prepare for what was to come.

I look over at the peaceful face next to me in bed. What did I do to deserve him? Why would a noble and kind man like him want someone like me? I often ask myself these questions and find that I don't have any answers. So I think about what is to come. Who will Sherlock ultimately choose? John or Moriarty?

But I know that the answer will only unfold in the months to come. So I snuggle up closer to Greg and fall asleep in his arms. Little did I expect the all-out war that followed.

Notes:

1: A prefect is the British term for a hall monitor.

**Duh duh duh (dramatic drumroll)! And coming up next: The Fall! Sorry for how short it was, but you just had a big gigantic chapter! Please tell me what you thought of this mini-chapter, it would mean a lot to me.**


	6. Chapter 5: The Fall

**I must say, this has to be the most fun chapter that I have written yet. Mostly because of the slow build-up and teasing that I have established. This is actually Tim's, the first person I let see any of these chapters, favorite chapter. The only apprehension I have is that this chapter will be seen as too far for kids their age. But, still, I hope you enjoy it.**

**Note: Sadly, I own nothing. If I did, I would make Sherlock and John do all sorts of fun things.**

**WARNING: THIS IS PRETTY EXPLICIT. BRACE YOURSELF OR GO AWAY.**

Chapter 5: The Fall (And That's All You Need to Know)

Moriarty

Ah yes, Sherly will never admit it, but he does have a flair for the dramatic. Where did he leave off? The Fall? Ah yes, he sure left you hanging. Haha, being punny today. Now, down to business. The Fall. The greatest day of Sherlock and I's battle. The sealing of my last vow.

But you don't know what I am talking about, do you? I can't tell you what a relief it is that you know who I am. It was so stifling trying to write that first chapter all serious and everything1. But you don't care about that, you care about the Fall.

There was a gradual build-up to the Fall. It started the first day we met and just kept on going for three years2. But the day that the build-up really started to sky-rocket was just half a year before the Fall (which happened in the Spring, if you wanted to know). The day in the library. From then on, I tried as many different ways as I could to get a kiss from Sherlock Holmes. And one of the ways I did was the way you find in most gay "romance novels" (which we all know they really aren't): in the showers.

It was the middle of the night. The headmistress had a curfew, but Sherlock never followed it. Sherlock could do whatever he wanted. I had pressured one delicious older boy to switch rooms with me so that I could be in the same room as Sherlock. You really do not want to know what I did, as I am trying to build up the explicitness as this story progresses. Anyway, so I then had a way to keep an eye on Sherlock and John. That was what I was doing when I noticed Sherlock grabbing a towel and a change of clothes around two o'clock in the morning. So I naturally got a towel and followed him.

When I got to the showers, Sherlock was already undressing. So I put down my stuff and started undressing with my back to him. "You shouldn't be in here," he said.

"You shouldn't be in here, either," I countered. I turned around, completely naked. Sherlock still had his pants on and his back turned. I slowly sauntered up to him and saw him shiver with anticipation or desire or both.

"Don't take a step closer," he said through gritted teeth. So I stood there and pouted.

"But I want to touch your magnificent body," I whine, enjoying the nice view of his butt anyway.

"Whatever you think we share, we don't. Now please go away and let me shower in peace." Sherlock was clearly exhausted; he hadn't even noticed that I stepped closer. So I decided to be bold and step even closer and put my arms around his back, stroking his chest.

"How do you know we don't share anything? How do you know I won't give you peace? You don't. You won't unless you try," I murmured as his breaths started to become faster and lighter. "How do you know you don't need me?" I whispered into his right ear before biting it gently on the lobe. Sherlock moaned in response and after I released the lobe I soothed it with some gentle flicks of my tongue. Then I started to move my hand down.

Down from his sparsely-furred chest to his skinny stomach and then down even further to the bulge in his pants. I gave it a little squeeze and was rewarded by a little twitch from the bulge and a moan from Sherlock. "I know you want me," I whispered darkly into his ear as I stroked his slowly-hardening bulge through his pants and lightly ground my bulge against his butt. "You can't deny it because I am holding proof that you do." He groaned and started to grind his butt against me. "Sherlock. My little virgin. Who would have thought you could be so naughty3?" With those words he jerked back to his usual self. He quickly pulled away and put back on his shirt, not looking at me once.

Sherlock was blushing. He was so red all over that he just looked like a tomato. A really pissed-off, sexy tomato4. "If you ever tell anyone about this, I will kill you," Sherlock said in a menacing tone, his fore-arm across my trachea. Of course, my brain decided to be stupid.

"But why, Sherly? Why do you not want to spread our love with the world?" I ask with a pouty face. He moved his arm and walked towards the door.

"Because I don't love you," he said, and then was gone. And I never did mention it to anyone. Until now. But he doesn't really care anymore, because everyone already knows.

As the frozen air slowly started to warm, Sherlock and I had more and more showdowns. All were over petty things. Until I started to use Uni students (Saint Dymphna also had a university, but after Uni you had to go out into "the real world") to beat up younger children. Then he really got pissed. So within a week I got a note tucked under my pillow inscribed with the following:

_Meet me on top of the school building at midnight tonight. Don't tell anyone. John will be on the grass next to the building as insurance for both of us. Be prompt. __-SH_

So I am. "Well, well, well. What a romantic setting this is!" I gush, though what I am actually feeling is the exact opposite.

"This isn't some romantic interlude, Moriarty," Sherlock says in an annoyed tone of voice, "I asked you to come here to persuade you to stop bullying those children."

"Okay, okay. I'll stop. But you realize I will just have to move on to something even more devious, right? So devious, in fact, that it may cost you the life of your dear friend John," I reply in an overly-dramatic voice. I had one of my closest goons; a boy named Sebastian, shine a laser-pointer at John's head. So I didn't follow Sherlock's rules. Big whoop. And I just feel so alive, so invigorated on that roof with Sherlock. But I had to take our game even further.

"You wouldn't dare," he growled.

"Oh, but I would," I said while circling him like a predator does its prey. "I promised you that I would make your life a living hell5," I sneer, circling closer, "And I was good on my promise, wasn't I?" Sherlock nodded, and then thought for a few seconds.

"But what about your promise to burn me6?" I moved closer, furiously thinking of how to tell him I had totally forgotten about that. Then inspiration struck.

"I was just about to get to that," I whispered. Then I got even closer, right in front of his face. And I kissed him. I kissed Sherlock, both punishing and sweet at the same time. I was shocked. I hadn't meant to do that. To keep myself from continuing to kiss him, I pushed Sherlock away.

I pushed Sherlock away, not realizing just how close to the edge of the building we were. And then he was falling. I heard a voice cry out, not realizing that it was me. Falling feet first, his head tilted upward with shock clearly etched on his face. And he looked like a flower, his coat billowing up over his head. My flower, falling. Falling to his death.7

Notes:

1: I have a confession to make. I always read that one single little part in Andrew Scott's voice. I just can't help myself.

2: Reference note: Sherlock and John are now thirteen; Moriarty is around fourteen and a half.

3: I have to admit just how embarrassed I was to write this bit. I think that my face was as red as a tomato when Tim read over it for me.

4: I am pretty sure there is no such thing as a sexy tomato. I don't even like tomatoes. I just randomly felt like comparing Sherlock with a sexy tomato.

5: Reference note: Moriarty says this in his note in Chapter 3.

6: Reference note: Moriarty verbally says this in Chapter 3.

7: When I wrote this last little bit, I almost cried.

**So…I'm sorry that I did this to you. But it had to be done. And then I prolong it over two more chapters. Yeah, I'm evil, I'll admit it. I would like to thank theincredibleinkspitter, LeahMaeLaugh, lookingthroughthemirror, hamishismymiddlename, Tim C, emedealer, U. Know. Me, and 221BluePoliceBox for the reviews. Also want to thank all of you followers and likers for your continued support. And I would especially like to thank 221BluePoliceBox for going over all of my non-British words and Tim C for reading all of my first drafts. I couldn't do any of this without you all. What did you think of that shower scene? Did you like how I (sort-of) integrated The Reichenbach Fall? What will happen to Sherlock? Will he die and just leave John all alone? Please tell me what you think in a review. Wow. That was really long.**


	7. Chapter 6: The Fall (Continued)

**This is a really short chapter, and I am sorry for that. But the last chapter was gigantic and I am having some difficulties writing Chapter 10. Let's just say that that chapter will be ****quite**** long. Also, I have posted the first chapter for my new crossover fic I started writing, ****Running to You****. It is a Doctor Who/ Sherlock crossover, so if you like both of those shows it would be really great if you could go check it out. I hope you enjoy this chapter and maybe take the time to review?**

Chapter 6: Random Thoughts of a Falling Boy

Sherlock

Falling. I am falling. One shock after the other. First the kiss and now the Fall. My first kiss, nonetheless. My first kiss, from a sociopath. Well, it's only fitting. But I did wish that it would be John's lips that first met these in an embrace. _And still I fall. _Sweet, sweet John. My gentle Hobbit who is so naïve to this dirty, hateful, deceitful, back-stabbing, cruel world1. Because he has blocked out all it has taught him, since the things the world taught him are all dark and definitely not something that a little boy of six should even have to think about, nonetheless experience. _I fall the Never-ending Fall._ If only I could be like John, but no, I pursue the world. I study its quirks and changes, its perfection and flaws, its light and dark. _And I fall._

Snapping out of that mindset, I quickly change my trajectory so that instead of being a bird I become a flower. A flower, because of the way my Christmas coat now billows above my head2.

I am a flower. A flower that will attract bees. Bees to a trap, to be snapped up by me; not a flower, but a Venus fly-trap.

And I continue to fall. Closer and closer to the ground I get3. I scramble around in my mind palace, putting up as many barriers as I can. I slam all the doors shut, racing up and down the hallways, starting from the top of the building and working my way down. Sliding down the banisters to not waste time. John would be so proud of me, since I actually do "boyish" things in my mind palace. No, do not think about John or anything except for closing the doors, I tell myself. After all the doors are closed (took me a total of 3.07 seconds to do so) , I lock myself in a padded room4. Nail the beams of wood across the door, building up my defenses against the pain that will surely come soon. And there I stay, curled in a ball in the corner, braced for impact.

And my last thought before hitting the ground, a thought that made mind-palace-me laugh: And with this kiss, I shall die5.

Notes:

1: I couldn't help myself. I just had to reference _the Hobbit_.

2: Reference Note: See Chapter 2.5 for John's ramblings on Sherlock's then-new coat.

3: This is supposed to seem crazy and not make any sense. I mean, he's falling, of course he's allowed to think one messed-up sentence.

4: A little nod to "His Last Vow." Hope you saw it before reading this.

5: I had actually already made a photo edit with these words months ago, and thought it especially fitting for this fic.

**And I continue to be evil, stopping right before he hits the ground. But I promise you, the next chapter will be good. Going to be a little busy the rest of this week, so it would be really great if you could tell me what you think of my story so far, what you think will happen next, or any complaints you have about me. Seriously, I don't really care what you have to say, I just want someone to say something. I know that at least one person is reading this. So please, please, please review.**


	8. Ch 7: John (Finally) Learns Something

**This HAS to be one of my favorite chapters that I have written. Just in case you were wondering, I just finished writing Chapter 10 and 11. 11 will be real feelsy. But I hope you enjoy this chapter, it made me really happy writing it. Utos! (That's Latin for enjoy)**

**Note: I still own nothing, if you haven't already picked that up.**

Chapter 7: John (Finally) Learns Something

_John_

John had been looking down at the grass when he heard a little cry of shock. Looking up, he saw a figure falling. "Sherlock!" his mouth shouted before his mind comprehended. And it was Sherlock. Sherlock, falling.

Falling.

Falling.

And John started running. Who would do this, John wondered. So he looked up past Sherlock to the shocked face illuminated by the moonlight. And John's stomach sunk and he felt betrayed. He mentally slapped himself, can't think about that. Store that information in your mind villa1. Must get to Sherlock before he hits the ground.

And he did. Barely. Arms out, John helped slow down Sherlock's velocity. Of course, he went down with him. But he wasn't hurt. Sherlock, on the other hand, most definitely was. Even if his leg wasn't at an unnatural angle with some bone sticking out, Sherlock's pallor and cries of pain would most definitely have told John all he needed to know. Blood was starting to soak the grass with Sherlock laying in it.

John had to hurry. His father had once taught him how to make a tourniquet. Hopefully he remembered that lesson well enough to save Sherlock's life. John quickly tore a large strip of cloth from his shirt and found two relatively-straight sticks. "Now this is going to hurt. Scream all you want, Sherlock, but this has to be done. If I don't try to set the bone, you will lose even more blood and could die. Maybe you will wake up the headmistress with your screams and then she can call 9992 for us." Sherlock nodded, and then started to scream as John set his leg to the best of his ability. By the time he was done, they were both coated with Sherlock's blood and Sherlock's voice had gone hoarse from all the screaming. Luckily, the headmistress heard the screams and called 999. Sherlock survived, of course. But in those minutes when John didn't know if Sherlock would live or die, John had a revelation. If Sherlock died, John would rather die with him than have to live without him. He loved him. John Hamish Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes. And he told him so. John whispered, "I love you," in Sherlock's ear before he was carried away on a stretcher. "I love you," he murmured before turning away to answer the police's questions.

~o~

John was able to recall all that he had seen. He told the police what he had heard, why he was there in the first place, and how he had looked up and seen Sherlock falling. And then he looking past Sherlock and saw… "Who? Who did you see?" the eager policemen and women asked him.

"I saw Jim Moriarty illuminated by the moon," John said in a broken voice, close to crying. His friend had betrayed him. And that made John a dangerous enemy to anyone. And so with the incriminating evidence John gave the police and Sherlock's testimony, Moriarty went to HM Prison Feltham3 and spent his time there plotting his revenge that he would enact once released.

It ended up that Sherlock had to stay in the hospital for two months due to complications, mostly Sherlock not allowing enough time for him to heal. But Sherlock slowly got better. He had broken the femur of one leg and the tibia of the other. Other than that, he was fine. John had saved his life. But that didn't mean that Sherlock would be able to walk anytime soon.

Since Sherlock was confined to a wheelchair for three months and crutches for three months after that4, he was given a special room on the first floor reserved for kids that couldn't walk up the stairs. The only problem was that the rooms were meant for two children, and Sherlock did not have a roommate. This was a big problem, because Sherlock got lonely. And whenever he got lonely, more and more of his sociopath tendencies came out. So the headmistress made an exception for the safety of everyone and allowed John to also use the room.

Little did the headmistress know that this exception would help change the dynamic of John and Sherlock's relationship into something more and also open the door to more opportunities.

Notes:

1: Since Sherlock has his mind palace, I was wondering what John would have. Since he has many more memories than most fourteen-year-olds but has less than Sherlock, I decided on a mind villa. Also, I can just imagine John relaxing in his mind villa. Villa is a more John-oriented word than cottage, bungalow, or house.

2: For all Americans like me, 999 is the British equivalent of 911.

3: I had to do some research (especially since the original word I used was juvy) and found that HM Prison Feltham is a male juvenile prison southwest of London, where (although I have never stated so) this story takes place. It has been open as a juvenile prison since 1910.

4: Having had surgeries for both of these injuries, I would say that this is the average recovery time for Sherlock's surgeries. Especially since he had both of these injuries at one time.

**So… what did you think of how I wrapped up that little bit about the Fall? How about John's admission? Please give me any feedback, so I can make your reading experience catered more towards you guys!**


	9. Chapter 8: Ramblings of an Old Lady

**Now, I realize that this is an extremely short chapter. It's really just a chapter to help introduce a new character. It'll make sense in the next chapter, believe me. But, to make up for the shortness, I also give you my English assignment, my little play off of Sherlock in (sort-of) iambic pentameter. Hope you enjoy!**

**Note: Like usual, I still own nothing.**

Chapter 8: Ramblings of an Old Lady

Mrs. Hudson

Yoo-hoo, I am Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and John's new caretaker and maid. Now that they are down on the first floor, they have me to fuss over and force feed them. I am also supposed to help Sherlock with whatever he needs since the rascal just had to go and fall off a building. Luckily John was there to break his fall or he would probably be dead. Oh! That was rude of me to say. Anyway, I usually do not have to do that much for Sherlock because he refuses to let me mother him or fuss too much and he just makes John do it instead. Poor John, he doesn't even know that he doesn't actually have to help Sherlock with everything. But they would make such a cute couple, wouldn't they! I mean, I know they are both boys and all, but I have been a caretaker to all types.

For instance, once I had to take care of Greg Lestrade after he had gall bladder surgery, and I swear that I constantly had to shoo out that dastardly Mycroft Holmes! They are both cut from the same cloth, Mycroft and Sherlock. Then, one time, there was this girl named Amelia. Amelia Pond, I think it was. And she always had this girl named Rose in her room. I think it was… yes, it was Rose Tyler. I don't think that they were together or anything, but they just came to mind for some reason.

Oh dear, I've already been dragging on. Sorry for interrupting your little story, but I just had to introduce myself, because no one ever wants to listen to me. That ditty old bat, they call me. Sherlock once even told me to shut up, but then he quickly apologized.

John is such a sweetie. Always so kind, so polite. Unlike Sherlock. He always keeps his side of the room nice and neat. Unlike Sherlock.

For example, the other day Sherlock almost blew up the room. "Doing an experiment on the smells of different explosives and the characteristics of the products made," he said, as if it were a perfectly normal thing for a fourteen- year- old to do! And that violin of his…he never plays when John is around. I don't know why. Sometimes he will start to play a lovely tune, but then will just start making all of these dreadful sounds for no reason, some days he takes all my patience to deal with…

Now, I don't want to keep you, dear, so why don't you just run along now. I know you want to. Go! Shoo!

**I couldn't help myself. I just had to take the opportunity and put in a little, teensy- weensy bit of Wholock. If you like my Wholock, please go check out my other story that I'm working on. It's a Wholock with a ****little**** hint of Johnlock, I'm thinking.**

My Play-off of Sherlock in Iambic Pentameter

You fell out of my life, taking with you

My shattered heart, like your skull when you fell

To the ground. Why did you have to leave me?

I sit here with your ghost in your old chair.

Mrs. Hudson is happy you are gone,

Or at least that is what she says. Lestrade

And Anderson feel like they caused your death,

But they refuse to admit it. Molly

Hooper says nothing about you, hiding

The truth. Your brother comes around for tea,

But he always leaves promptly. Here I am,

On that fateful building where you stood on

That fateful day, hoping you will come save

Me from this pain you caused. And here I fall,

Where you once fell, into oblivion,

Sweet oblivion, coming back to you.

**Please tell me what you think! Haven't had time to type up Chapter 10 or 11, so it might be a few more days before I update. Chapter 10 is long, like REALLY long. SO after that there might be a bit of a pause. Thanks for reading and reviewing and everything, guys!**


	10. Chapter 9: Mazes and Umbrellas

**Sorry for taking so long! Been really busy and didn't want to post until I completed typing up Chapter 10. And, well, that is ****not**** going to happen, so here you go! I know it's a bit short, but I feel like it is still important.**

Chapter 9: Mazes and Umbrellas

Sherlock

Can I just say that I hate wheelchairs. They are cumbersome, annoying, and they mean that I cannot be a good detective or chemist now. I cannot even see the surface of a lab table. I wonder if this is how John usually feels. Nevertheless, even with this most annoying of hindrances, I got a case. We got a case. And we solved it, too.

I could tell right away that something was wrong. Mrs. Hudson was wringing her hands. "What is it, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked as I wheeled into the room.

"Sherlock, would you please get your nose out of that book? And would it really hurt to clean up your side of the room once in a while?" John's side of the room was immaculate, mine was a maze of haphazardly-stacked books threatening to fall at any minute.

"But, Mrs. Hudson, you are our maid," I retort.

"That doesn't matter. This is unacceptable."

"Mrs. Hudson, will you please just spit out what has you in such a tizzy!" I nearly shout at the poor woman wringing her hands anxiously in the doorframe.

"Sherlock Holmes, is that how you speak to a lady? Well… I guess I sort of deserved that one. There was some man here about a case. I believe he said to tell you that he 'will tell Mummy unless you comply.'"

I inhaled sharply. Mycroft. Of course it was Mycroft. What did he want now? He probably just wanted to poke fun at my disability. He had been coming in every week since I got out of the hospital just to laugh at me.

And then Mycroft himself walked into the room. He was wearing a pressed suit and had a new addition, a navy blue umbrella that was a perfect match with the navy blue of the suit. "I think I have a case would interest you, brother mine. Your very first actual case."

"I'll take it," I replied before even hearing the details of the case. Needless to say, I regretted it immensely. The game, I should say, was on.

**And now you will have to wait who knows how long for the next chapter. Sorry. I have a whole butt- load of work right now. Working on typing up chapter 10, but I have barely started. It would mean a lot to me if you would review, though!**


	11. Ch 10: Stalkers, Kissing and Pickpockets

**Ok, so this chapter is ginormous. But all of it is necessary! So please bear with me here. Also, please tell me if you have any problems with it or anything, but before doing so, please read the notes. I would once again like to thank everyone who is reading this and/or following and reviewing. Your help is much appreciated and keeps me going.**

**Note: I own nothing! I literally just sang that to myself. Go ahead and laugh at me, you know you want to.**

**WARNING: We're going to get a little explicit up in here. Well, sort of. Kind of. A little, but not really. Ok, never mind, now thinking about it, it is pretty bad. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

Chapter 10: Stalkers, Kissing, and Pickpockets (Oh My!)

_John_

John walked into the room to find Sherlock and Mycroft in a very heated conversation. One might even call it a row. "Ah, John, glad you are here. Please tell me that you will make my brother see sense."

"Mycroft, I can't do any such thing, even if I wanted to. What were you guys… talking about?"

"Glad you asked. I was telling Sherlock about a case he had already agreed to do. Maybe if I go over the facts one more time that will change his mind." Sherlock just glared at Mycroft, plucking the strings of a… violin?

"Okay… so, tell me about the case." John gave Sherlock a glance that let him know that they were going to talk about the violin later. He acknowledged the glance with an almost imperceivable nod.

"There is a woman of certain… significance to our country who has recently picked up a stalker- cum- blackmailer. She is very worried. So she wrote to me to have me look into it. Brother mine, you know how much I detest footwork. Please take the case. I promise to pay you all the money I receive for the case. You then also get to try out some of those disguises I know you have been dying to try."

"Mycroft, I am in a wheelchair. There are only eleven good disguises when limited to using a wheelchair1. Also, this case doesn't require any actual footwork and you know it. So why are you passing this case off to me?"

"Well, as… umm… a sort of apology."

"For what?" Sherlock asked, clearly annoyed and trying to return the favor by plucking random strings on the violin.

"Because… well… Sherlock, would you please stop making that terrible racket! I understand that you are annoyed with me for wasting your 'precious time' (He said those words in the most perfect Sherlock impression. Sherlock made a strange face at him and John had to hold back his laughter.). I… I knew what was going to happen between you and Moriarty, but I got the timing wrong. I was going to call 999 once I knew for sure but… I am so sorry, little brother."

Sherlock just kept an expression- free face and started to wax his violin strings before saying, "I already knew. Also, you were wrong. I did already know how high you were in the British government. I was the one who sent that letter. Not the others, only that one. And now, brother dear, you are even higher ranked. What, are you aiming to become the British government2? Oh, don't look so surprised. You are five years older than me and I am only three years behind in education even though you graduated from Uni three years early. Of course I found out."

John just looked back and forth between them. "So… are we taking the case or not?"

"Of course we are taking the case, john, don't be silly. Stalker blackmailer double- whammy as a first case? What more could a boy ask for?" Sherlock was clearly excited as his whole body flushed and he had started to spin in circles in his wheelchair.

"Good. Then I will go and let her know. You can expect me to come by in a few days. You should have figured it all out by then.

Once Mycroft left, Sherlock swung around and said, "Before you ask, John, yes, I have been able to play the violin since I was four. Now, Mycroft says we have a few days, but I say we go and scope out the house now."

"But, Sherlock, the headmistress will notice if we are missing. And people on the streets will remember us if we keep showing up in front of the same house."

"Mrs. Hudson can cover for us, John. And there is a simple thing called a disguise to solve your other concern. Let's go. Please," Sherlock pleaded with an excellent pouty face. John was taken aback. Never in the eight years that he had known Sherlock had he ever said please. It would also give him time to spend with Sherlock, soaking in some of his vast knowledge. John had skipped a grade or two, but he was nowhere near as smart as Sherlock Holmes3. So it was a no- brainer that he say yes. So he did.

"Oh all right, I guess that we can take the case. But you are doing my homework for a month. And I also get a kiss.

Sherlock casually glanced over at him. "A kiss?"

"Yes, a kiss," John replied, gaining courage, "On the lips."

"Deal," Sherlock said with a triumphant smile, "Now. Come over here."

"Wh-Why?" John queried nervously. He didn't know why he was so nervous; it wasn't as if he hadn't already seen most of Sherlock. He had been helping him get dressed and undressed since he couldn't really do it himself with a cast on leg and a brace on the other. He also helped him shower. But he didn't look at him. That would be rude.

"For a kiss. A kiss I've wanted for a very long time. Come on, John! Don't look so shocked. I could have easily asked Mrs. Hudson to help me get dressed and shower; that is what she is here for! But I wanted you to do it, hoping it might initiate something. But no, you had to go and be the good little boy. Come. Over. Here. Now." He said the last bit with a barely- contained need coloring his voice.

John slowly made his way over and carefully helped Sherlock get into his bed to help make their kiss less difficult. After making sure Sherlock was situated, John sat down next to Sherlock and turned to face him. And Sherlock turned to face John. Their lips slowly grew closer, as if both of them were tentative of making first contact. So John gathered his strength and planted his lips firmly against Sherlock's. His lips were hard, yet soft at the same time. John moaned and Sherlock took advantage of his open mouth to thrust his tongue against John's. john was most definitely surprised, but went with it. When they both finally came up for air, John was panting heavily and Sherlock's face was so red it was almost magenta.

"Wow, I just asked for a kiss, expecting a peck on the mouth. But no, this is Sherlock Holmes who always does things all the way or not at all."

"Speaking of all the way or not at all, I forgot to mention that the headmistress pulled me out of all of my classes for the semester."

"What!? Why?!"

"She feels that I need to recover before going back to school. But it gives me more time to work on the case, which is a plus. Now, do you want another kiss?"

"Oh God, yes."

~o~

After a long make- out session, Sherlock got out all of his disguises. "We're going to have to make yours extra convincing, John, that way they don't suspect me," he said while pursing his lips, "Luckily, I have the perfect disguise pairing." John did not like the sound of that.

An hour later a crippled old man in a wheelchair and a teenage boy were begging for spare change on the corner of Hayes Place. They both wore filthy, ragged clothes and the old man wore an eye- patch and a scarf around his mouth on account of his whooping cough. After a particularly lengthy spell of racking coughs, the apparent grandson leaned over his grandfather and asked him what was wrong.

"You need to look for anyone out of the ordinary, John. Anyone meandering for a particularly long period of time, taking pictures of the client's building, or anyone else you see multiple times. You have to find a way to tell me, too," Sherlock got out between fake coughing spells.

"Sherlock, we already went over all of this back in the room. I have a tapping code, remember?"

"Oh course I remember," Sherlock snapped, "I was worried that you had forgotten, that's all."

They didn't talk to each other for a few hours, just begged for food or money and kept an eye out for suspicious or unsavory characters. After being outside for five hours, Sherlock roused a dozing John saying, "John, wake up. I got a suspect."

"Hmm, where?

Sherlock pointed without extending his arm. "Right over there. He has been by seven times in two hours. He also has a camera that he clearly has not used once in that time frame, on account of the fact that our client is not home at the moment."

"Ok, so contact whoever you have to contact and get him into handcuffs."

"What, no! John, I… we, do not have any evidence yet. How good is your pickpocket?"

"I'm ok at it, I guess. Why?"

"Well, I'm in a wheelchair and thus easily memorable. But you… you, John, could easily pickpocket this man and he wouldn't even notice."

"O-kay. What do you want me to pickpocket off of him?"

"Anything you can. This should be good practice for you. Maybe this way you will also start to notice when I pickpocket you," Sherlock said, swinging John's father's dog tag necklace in front of his face.

"Y-You fucking bastard," John snarled, snatching the dog tag out of Sherlock's fingers. That was probably why he wanted to continue kissing him, to see how good his pickpocketing skills were. And it wasn't in his pocket, but on his bloody neck! "You know how much this means to me. This was the only thing they were able to salvage of either of them after the explosion.4"

Sherlock's face actually looked sorrowful. "I am sorry, John. I really and truly am. But it was the only way I could think of to show you just how much you have let your pickpocketing skills slip over the years without you punching me in the face."

"Oh, don't you worry your beautiful head, Sherlock, I will collect that punch one day," John growled, then sighed saying, "Alright, fine. I will go pickpocket him. But don't you ever say that my skills are slipping. In fact, look, I got a little memento from our first kiss, too," John smirked and wagged a condom around, "Really, Sherlock? Did you really think I was going to let you fuck me after our first kiss?"

"I was sort of hoping so. But I was going to be fucking you, you were going to be fucking me." John turned bright red and quickly walked towards the target. He could hear Sherlock chuckling behind him.

"Bastard," he muttered to himself, then forced himself to focus on the task at hand. The scanned the man from a few feet away, identifying objects in his pockets and considering his best course of action. A wallet in his right pocket, a folded- up piece of paper in the left. Well, there was only one good choice, and that was the right pocket. But how to do it? Go up and kiss him? While that might work with Sherlock, John was pretty certain it wouldn't work in this instance. Engage in conversation? Accidently bump into him? Yes, that was it. John strode forward with purpose, practically rushing down the street, a pile of spare change in his left hand. And he ran straight into the target. The change flew into the air and scattered all over the place. "Oh dear! I'm so sorry, mate, I am in a terrible rush!" The target started picking up the change. While he was bent over, John quickly got the man's wallet and stashed it in his coat pocket before picking up some of the other loose coins and starting to run, shouting over his shoulder, "You know what, mate, you keep the rest of it." John ran around the corner and zig- zagged down a few more streets until he reached the meeting place he and Sherlock had agreed upon. Once there, he handed the wallet over to Sherlock and they walked back to school. After they quickly removing their makeup and disguises, John and Sherlock both instantly fell asleep.

When John got back to the room after his classes the next day, he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock playing Eine Kleinne Nacht Musik5. He quickly put down the violin and said, "Robert Fullton."

"What?" John said, very confused about what was going on.

"Robert Fullton. He is our client's stalker cum blackmailer. Born in Yorkshire; 31; professional photographer, but not making much money; lives close to our client's house; wears cheap clothes, but they are new; has a thing for cheese; and is OCD paired with anti- social personality disorder6, which makes him easier to follow but harder to find evidence condemning him," Sherlock said in his usual deduction voice: rapid- fire, poised, and full- of- himself.

John just hummed in acknowledgement, knowing full well that Sherlock would tell him how he figured all of it out if he asked him how or didn't. Sherlock sat there for a few minutes, waiting. When John didn't ask him the question, Sherlock just went on as if he hadn't paused, "I know his name and age from his driver's license, and that he was born in Yorkshire by his faint Yorkshire accent when he made a call on the pay phone down the street. Professional photographer by the quality of his camera but could tell that he is not making much money by the high usage of the camera, brand- new cheap clothes (which I could identify as such by the quality and brand- names), and of course because he has resorted to blackmail to pay this month's rent. He has to live nearby because he has walked to our client's house, you can tell by the wearing on the soles of his shoes, and he doesn't want to have to go far to pick up his cash. In his wallet, there is a business card for a small cheese shop most people don't know about. It is only open to cheese connoisseurs. OCD by how perfectly outlaid everything was in his wallet, every note is straight and in the same direction, everything perfectly perfect. He also took exactly three steps per section of pavement with every piece of pavement, suggesting OCD as well."

John couldn't resist. "How did you know about the anti- social personality disorder?"

"Hmmm… oh. I didn't really need deductions for that one. Once I knew the name, I searched through my mind palace and came across some useful information. He once went to school here so that someone could keep an eye on him. Supposedly, he was caught skinning animals alive on multiple occasions. They diagnosed him with anti- social personality disorder here at Saint Dymphnas."

John looked at Sherlock with awe. "But how did you learn that?"

"I went through all the old files within my first month here."

"Oh." John was a little disappointed now. He had expected it to be much grander of an explanation. "So… have you called Mycroft yet?"

"I have. He is coming by in a little bit."

"Oh… well, I have to go study for my history exam tomorrow."

"Okay. It's just that… I envisioned you standing next to me when I told Mycroft who did it and the proof I have that he did it."

"But Sherlock, you don't really have any proof."

"I didn't tell you? (John shook his head no) Must have slipped my mind. I just went by our client's house once you left for class, and low and behold I see Mr. Fullton meandering down the street. And what does he have in his pocket but a new blackmail letter to leave in our client's mailbox. Since I expected he might do such a thing today to keep with his consistent routine, I had an extra letter just in case. I wheeled up and took the blackmail letter, replacing it with a nice little letter to our client from me saying that I had identified her blackmailer and politely asked her to come here this evening," Sherlock concluded, with the letter now in his left hand like a plate on a waiter's hand.

At that moment Mycroft waltzed in and plucked the letter off of Sherlock's outstretched hand. "Thank you, brother mine. No need to explain, I overheard your whole conversation with John. Good work, Sherlock7." And with that he was gone.

John just opened his mouth, not saying anything for a few seconds, and then blurted out, "Can you help me study for this exam?"

"Sure, I don't see why not. I don't have anything better to do at the moment."

John and Sherlock's lives changed that a little bit that day. From that time on, they began to be known ad=s detectives. More specifically, "The Consulting Detective Duo." John started to write about all of the cases that he and Sherlock worked on, typing it all up on an old World War Two typewriter. "Why can't you just use a computer like a normal person?" Sherlock complained.

"Because a typewriter gives the writing more character, more depth." Then Sherlock would just huff and go to his mind palace for hours.

And so this new life progressed for John and Sherlock and marked the beginning of a budding romance.

Notes:

1: Ok, truth time. I totally made up the thing about the eleven disguises. I don't know how many you could actually make with a wheelchair.

2: I thought that it would be funny if Sherlock asked Mycroft if he was trying to become the British government and then he does. So… yeah.

3. Just to clarify: John is three years ahead in school, so he is a fourth year in secondary school (a senior in high school for all of my fellow Americans). Sherlock is six years ahead in school, and is a third year in tertiary school, otherwise known as Uni (a junior in college). So… hope that clarified things.

4: The significance of the dog tag and the explosion and who "them" is will be further explained in the next chapter.

5: Amazing song, which you probably know. Look it up and you will instantly recognize it.

6: Anti- social personality disorder (ASPD) is what is usually referred to as being a psychopath or sociopath. But according to the Fifth Edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or DSM-5, psychopathy and sociopathy are no longer considered mental disorders. There is only ASPD

7: I felt that Mycroft had to be nice for once.

**Ok, this chapter may seem like a sudden game changer. But I am here to tell you it most certainly is not. This may seem faster than Sherlock's usual pace of things, but I am telling you that Sherlock has felt this way about John for four years now. And this is the first move he has made. Please keep that in mind while reviewing. While on the topic of games, I have recently published a new story called ****The Games****, which is about well, the Olympics (which I am loving this year, just in case you wanted to know). Also, the next chapter will be extra feelsy. Brace yourself. But it might be a while, so don't brace yourself too hard.**


	12. Chapter 11: John's Untold Past

**Ok, so this chapter was really hard to write and then type. There are a lot of feels. ****A lot****. I almost cried writing it. So please tell me if you like it. Please.**

**Note: I still don't own anything.**

**WARNING: This chapter will be really touchy- feely with the topics of death and self- harm. I feel the need to say that it is quite graphic.**

Chapter 11: John's Untold Past

_John_

John was standing in the middle of a street in northern London. He couldn't move or speak. He could only watch the scene unfold before him. The scenes from the worst days of his life.

There was a little six- year- old John standing on the corner of the street with his older sister, Harriet. They were walking towards the candy store while Mr. and Mrs. Watson went to go buy Christmas presents. Mr. Watson was a lieutenant Colonel in the British Army and Mrs. Watson was a professor of forensic science at Kings College. It was lightly snowing and little John shivered as some snowflakes slipped under his coat and against his skin.

**Boom!** John and Harriet were pushed down by the sheer force of the explosion. Some terrorist organization had sent a suicide bomber near the shops on the week before Christmas, hoping to send a message of crushed dreams to the British government. John could only stand and watch with horror as a great ball of flame tried to lick the sky and bring it crashing down. He could only stand and listen to the cries of pain as people were burned alive; their skin boiling, their eyes melting, yet their mouths still wailing. All he could do was stare and wait for the nightmare to end.

Little John got up and turned to look back the way they came. All that was left of the area was a large hole with buildings tilted back from the blat and scorch marks everywhere. "Mummy? Daddy?" he whimpered.

Harriet kneeled next to him so that they would be eye to eye. "It'll be ok, John, I promise. You still have me."

They didn't tell anyone that they had no one to care for them. No one found out for weeks, when the police finally identified their parents by their paltry remains. By that time it was too late.

On Christmas Day, Harriet refused to get out of bed. "C'mon, Harry, c'mon! It's Christmas! Santa's prob'ly brought us new toys!"

"There is no such thing as Santa," Harry muttered with her eyes still closed, "Now leave me alone."

So John went down the stairs and turned the Queen's Speech on the telly. When the Speech was almost over, little John heard a loud thud from the bathroom. Then when he went to investigate, he let out a cry of pain and shock. Because there laid Harriet, already cold and growing pale, on the tile floor of the bathroom with little pools of blood around her. She had purposely cut herself with a razor- blade up and down her arms and legs, like so many spider webs pushed away by a high- strung child. Deep, painful cuts that cascaded out like water from a fountain. But that wasn't what killed her, no. What killed Harriet Watson was all of the pain- killers, anti- depression medication, and cough syrup she had ingested. Harry had gone through every single drawer in the bathroom and had swallowed every single pill of every type of medicine she thought had a chance of killing her. It only took her fifteen minutes to die. For a six- year- old boy, having first both of his parents die in an explosion and then have his sister commit suicide a week later caused a great deal of hurt and confusion in his life. When the authorities finally found him a week later, they found a starving boy, haunted by his sister's ghost, made mute by all that had happened. Sherlock was actually the first person he had talked to after months of silence. His teachers were amazed that he would have chosen Sherlock, of all people, as the first person he trusted since these events.

But older John was still staring at the bomb explosion and at the same time seeing his sister's glassy eyes and dead body surrounded by blood. It got to be too much for him to take. And so he screamed.

"John. John! It's ok, John. It'll be alright. Shhh. Just calm down," Sherlock crooned, sitting on John's bed and stroking his hair.

"Sherlock…"

"Yes, John?"

"You're not supposed to be walking without your crutches yet." Sherlock just lightly chuckled at that.

"John, I'm fine. I can walk extremely short distances without crutches. What were you having a nightmare about? The usual?"

"The usual," John confirmed.

"Why don't you sleep with me tonight?"

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed in a chastising tone of voice.

"No, John, I wasn't even thinking about that. You were, so you tried to project your feelings on me. I just want to comfort you."

"Fine," John grumbled, getting out of his bed and into Sherlock's. Sherlock came over right behind him and slipped in.

"Lay on your side," Sherlock murmured. Wordlessly, John complied. Sherlock also lied on his side and put his arms around John's chest, spooning him. It was a faint echo of that night a few years back with Sherlock and Moriarty in the showers. Except that Sherlock and John weren't doing anything, just enjoying the comfort of the other's body. They fell asleep in that way and woke up the next morning facing each other; John's left leg over Sherlock's right. "Well, this is awkward," Sherlock chuckled as he slowly awoke.

"Not really. You can get used to waking up like this every morning, because that's what you are going to do." John didn't have any nightmares the rest of the night that he spent in Sherlock's arms. Later that day, Mrs. Hudson helped John move the two beds together in the middle of the room against the wall. "Are you two sleeping together, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"In the literal sense, yes. In the sense you are implying, no," John replied.

"Aww, you guys should. You make such a lovely couple."

From then one, John and Sherlock slept spooning or facing each other every night while at Saint Dymphnas. And John didn't have that nightmare once during that time.

**This chapter is a lot to take in. I can understand it if you are reeling a little bit. I can't promise when the next chapter will be posted, as I have yet to type it up. But I can tell you that it is a case and it is ****good****. If you get bored from the wait, please go check out ****Running to You****, a Wholock fic which is almost complete (only one more chapter), and my budding series of one- shots called ****The Games****. Ciao for now!**


	13. Chapter 12: The Cook Case, Part 1

**First of all: Sorry for taking so long! I have been really busy with school and other stories. It's been a little crazy. Now, this case will be split into multiple parts. I'm not just quite so sure how many yet, but at least two to three. There will be multiple places to fangirl in this chapter for all who want to fangirl. Before I lose you to the story: all of **_**Sherlock's detective-y thoughts**_** are in **_**italics**_**. **_**Text messages**_** are too, but I think you will be able to tell the difference.**

**General Notice: Still own nothing. Like you ****really**** expected that to change in the span of a week.**

**WARNING: There is some questionable language in this chapter, as well as a pretty- well- described dead person. Just saying.**

Chapter 12: The Cook Case, Part 1

Sherlock

It had been three years since John and I's first case, and we are now just about to reach our 200th case. "If you find a diamond ring in her drawer, it was the cook," I say into my cellphone, and then flip it closed. I had just solved our 200th case. "Happy 200th case, John."

"Oh, so you can remember our 200th case but not our third year anniversary? Also, that was really rude to hang up on Greg like that."

Yes, Garret Lestrade and my brother are still dating. In fact, they had moved in together last year. Lestrade is starting to make his way up the police detective force ladder, handing us some interesting cases along the way. One such case was our 107th case, The Cook Case1 (that's what John calls it, at least).

It was the second semester of my senior year at Uni. John and I were both studying for final exams in our room. Well, John was studying. I was trying to design the blueprint for the layout of my flat, 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson owned the building and told me that she could lease me a flat while I was getting my PhD in Chemistry. I haven't told her yet that I plan to take many courses other than just Chemistry and that I might not even finish the PhD, but go and dapple in other subjects instead. So, I was studying and John was making a blueprint. Then Lestrade comes barging in saying, "Sherlock, I swear to God, if you don't solve this case for me, I will be forced to say that it was a ghost."

I simply looked him over. _Big fight with Mycroft about the amount of cake he has been eating lately and dieting_2_._ There was something else… _Agitated over case. Afraid. Wants a … daughter?_ "Lestrade, don't take all of your anger out on me. Just because Mycroft is angry because you are making him feel guilty does not mean that you shouldn't get on to him about dieting. Or at least exercising. And if you want a little girl so badly tell Mycroft and either adopt or take this new medicine I have been formulating3… but enough about that. Let me see the case and the crime scene, if it's fresh."

"The third murder just happened an hour ago."

"Very good! Who is the assistant on duty at the moment?"

"Oh, it's Anderson."

"Damn it, of course it is! John, you coming?"

"Only because I know you will both literally and verbally beat up Anderson if I don't." And off we went.

We arrived at 505 Park Lane and were immediately let under the yellow tape. We went into the cottage and made our way past detectives and specialists, John and Lestrade put on blue scrubs (I, of course, didn't) and we headed toward the water closet. "Charles Cook, 34, consultant at Chevron, travels around the world periodically," Lestrade said as we arrived at the water closet. The victim was slumped against the tiled wall of his shower, clothes (thankfully) still on. I looked over at Lestrade, asking with my eyes if I could have a closer look. He nodded in response. I stepped closer.

_Was standing up when killed. Standing near the middle of the shower to turn on the faucet._ There was a certain smell… _Cyanide? Ammonia? Chloroform? _ Some sort of poison… _Chloral hydrate? Potassium bromide?_ No, none of those. I got closer. There were three knives sticking out of the victim's back. _Put in after death. Cutlery— freshly sharpened._

"Was there a note?" I asked. _Serial killer._ It was written all over the victim. The elegance, the thinking down to the last detail.

"Yep. Having forensics go over it right now. But I could have it brought to you in just a minute. So… what are you thinking? Got any ideas?"

"A few. But I need some samples from his digestive system to be sure. If you could have them sent to my lab…"

"Of course, of course," Lestrade said placatingly, then turned his head out of the WC door and barked, "Anderson! Where is that note I asked for?"

And in walked Anderson, as egotistical and annoying as always. _Has two girlfriends. Sally Donovan and someone else. Someone not on the force. _ Sally had moved up the ranks with Lestrade, and she was now just a rank below him. Pretty good detective, but annoying and likes to make jokes at my expense. _Spent last night with Sally. No time to take a shower before shift started._

"Here you go, Greg. Ah, Sherlock. I should have known he would call you. So, what do you make of it? Nice of him to kill with the knife, quick that way."

I just said, "Her," absentmindedly, then completely ignored him, turning him on mute. _Stupid._ The knives were clearly put in after his death once one examined the insignificant amount of blood lost. He was clearly poisoned. "Did any of the doors show signs of tampering?" I had come up with a more substantial theory.

"No," Lestrade replied.

"Yes, good. Oh, yes, very good. Anderson, you fool, give me the note."

Anderson reluctantly handed it over. It was typed on a normal piece of printed paper, Times New Roman font, size 14. No fingerprints or smudges. It read: **Baked Chicken with Boiled Broccoli and Scalloped Potatoes**. Well, that was… odd. But at least it helped narrow down my search. After searching over the rest of the house — _Health nut. Only fresh produce. Very busy with work, little time to cook. Baked chicken with boiled broccoli and scalloped potatoes._ — I head to the front with a Tupperware container.

When I found Lestrade, I said, "Ah, Rory4. Mind if I take this food? I need to test it. Now, your suspect is going to be a woman. A female personal chef with extensive knowledge of either chemistry or biology. Text me if there's been another killing." I love to annoy Lestrade.

"I-It's Greg,' was all he could think to say. I am quite sure I had just given New Scotland Yard their first lead for the case.

"Come along, John5. We don't want the headmistress to get angry at us again." Like I said, it's fun to annoy Lestrade. I mean, his incompetence annoys me all the time, so I should get some payback, right?

The next day, I was allowed to leave campus to go to my lab at St. Bart's Hospital, where I was allowed to work since I took some extra classes at Imperial College London since I had already taken every single course offered by St. Dymphna's Uni. It's my graduating year; the headmistress was ready to be rid of me. Someone from the NSY brought me my digestive system samples while I was testing my food samples I took from the house. I still had no idea what the poison was, but I could see that it was there. After examining my digestive samples, I could see that it was there, too. I sighed to myself, hating the sense of defeat that hung over me like a cloud. Time to go to the expert.

"Molly!" I called out as I entered another lab in St. Bart's, "I got a question for you!" Molly, the same Molly as the one I had classes with a couple years back6. She was now working on her doctorate in something or another.

"What is it, Sherlock? You never come and ask me questions, it's always me going and asking you questions."

"Well, you have actually taken a class on the molecular structure of plants and molecules found in plants while I have not. I found these molecules of some kind of poison that I cannot identify in all the different types of food this guy ate and I need to you help me find out what it is. It's for a case."

Molly took the slides I offered her and put them under her microscope. "Hmm. Looks to me like… but it can't be… this is most peculiar. You said this was for a case, Sherlock?"

"Yes," I said impatiently, "What is it? Tell me what it is!" Molly claims to this day that I sounded like a petulant child in a toy store (not that I had ever been in one or seen the appeal).

"It… It is a very strange molecule only found in unripe tubers. Its name is solanine. Causes the green tint you see in some potatoes. I don't know much about it, but I can give you some files I have on it."

"Yes, that would do nicely, Molly. Thanks for the help." I took the files and the slides. _Solanine._ Before consulting the files, I wanted to see if I had anything on it buried deep in my mind palace. I sat down on a stool in my lab and left the conscious world behind.

_Solanine, Solanine, Solanine._ My hand traces the shiny walls of my mind palace as I run around the science wing, looking for anything, anything on solanine. _Only found active in tubers during growth, deactivate once tubers are fully grown. Special defense mechanism. Cause green color in potatoes. A low- level toxin and poison to humans_ —Ah- ha! — _when a large quantity (10-15 potatoes for a 150 pound human) is ingested in one sitting._ Well, that most likely did not happen. So how did the victim die? Wait, back up… tuber. But I found solanine in the other foods, too. So the killer must have a background in both biology and chemistry. Ah, yes. She simply (I say simply, but it is really rather difficult) supersaturated all the food in pure, unadulterated solanine.

Once I found out how she did it, I sent Lestrade a text telling him how it was done. He texted me back almost immediately.

_Well done. But just a little bit too late. We just got another murder called in, a female named Melanie Cook. And there aren't any "tubers" at the crime scene. –GL_

Bollocks.

Notes:

1: You will see the full reason why this is just so clever in the next chapter.

2: I couldn't help putting Mycroft's cake addiction in here again.

3: Once again, couldn't help adding just a pinch of the other parts of the Sherlock fandom. It's what I do!

4: I don't think I actually have to say this, but I'm going to say it anyway: I like to mix things up with different personalities of the Sherlock fandom. Also, I think I was fangirling pretty hard when I wrote this chapter.

5: Do I even need to say it? Basically: More Wholock.

6: Reference note: Found in Chapter 2.5 (technically 3, but that would throw off all the numbers).

**I am hoping that the next update will come sooner, but (sadly) I can't make any promises. Since this is/was my first ever Sherlock (or anything) fanfic, it would really mean a lot to me if you would tell me what you think and how I've progressed. Because I can't tell. So please help me out here. If you ever get bored, I have some other interesting/fun fics. Trying to spice it up, guys.**


	14. An Apology to All

This is not a chapter, sorry for all who were hoping this was. This is an apology for not updating recently. I am so sorry, my life has just been crazy busy at the moment. If you feel like I am only doing this with your story, this is happening with every story. I promise to do a really update in about a week, though. I will make you proud! Once again, sorry if you thought this was an actual update.


	15. Intermission, In The Form of Poetry

**A/N:** Soooo…. It is totally understandable if you guys are all mad at me for not keeping to my promise of an update. I am sorry, but life is so crazy when you are me. I won't elaborate just because I already feel bad enough. But, to tide you over a bit, I will give you this poem. Think of this as an intermission of a play! Whilst written for a totally different reason, I am totally open to someone taking off with a Parentlock based off of this. I am thinking that it can be John and Sherlock's child who has cancer and John and Sherlock are arguing over finding elusive cures or pulling the plug. Just let me know if you want to pursue the story, because I would love to help you along. Actually, if anyone wants any help, I just love to help with stories, no matter if I am busy or not. Enjoy!

The Fight For What We Think Is Right

We just can't make ourselves let go

Of the ones we love.

We hold them in tight

Even when we know it hurts them.

Our love blinds us, makes us unable to see

The pain felt by little bodies as they are forced to continue to breathe.

We would travel the world looking for the best doctors in their field,

Spending all our money on an elusive cure for our children when they just feel

Like crap. Maybe they just want to die

But it is our duty as parents to keep on fighting.

Hunched over and in pain,

Faces rarely seeing the pure light of day,

Not through the window, but felt by his or her face.

Dreaming of the day they will finally be free

To run and jump and play as they please.

But no, us faithful parents with all our love and tears,

We cling to them tightly, their lifeline to the living world, keeping them out of the grip of the grave.

Yes, I understand that some cannot have another child,

Or that they love their child too much to just let them go.

But the thing is we all love each and every one of our children so very much,

And if we truly loved them we would do what is right.

We just love to say that we are doing what is right,

But I think that deep inside we all know what is really going on.

We claim that we want to help the children of the future,

Keep them safe and healthy, not subject to what our children are going through.

We swipe away all memories of their pain after treatment,

Only keeping the pain once felt by wounds and various abuses.

Why have we become so blind to what we do?

I am not saying to pull the plug,

But to just think about what our children are going through.

If we do that, maybe we will finally be able to see

What each of our children's calling is meant to be.

**Please let me know what you think! I poured my heart and soul into this and would really love some feedback. It could just be an argument, I don't really care. I would LOVE to argue with you, if that is your wish. Just… please. Please review!**


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